This is a Story About Love
by Evaden
Summary: Christian refuses to ever return to the Moulin Rouge, but more than one of his convictions are made into nothing when he meets a daring young prostitute, is introduced to a dancer in the new Ballet...


I've already told my story about love. Love was done with me.

No one ever tells you the way it really is. People everywhere go to the ends of the earth for love. They risk their lives and give up everything they have for love. It's a common theme, but no one ever tells about how they live after love has gone.

I know the reason why they are so silent.

After love is gone, you are no longer living. You are a shell; a person without a heart or a soul. But you still breathe and you still think...just enough to know what you are and what you lost. Just enough to wish that you were dead.

I thought that I was done.

It had been a year of hell: I was barely living, barely scraping by; garnering a makeshift existence through the help of shadowy figures who called themselves friends. I don't remember anything but what comes back to me in flashes. For that entire year, my life was what I had; and so I wrote. I wrote day in and out until my fingers cramped and my fingerprints wore off completely. I took inspiration from the well of my soul and tried to put my broken thoughts to words. I wasn't writing for anyone in particular: I was writing mostly for myself.

What I hoped most was that the pain would begin to wear away, like my fingerprints on the keys of the worn typewriter lying on my cluttered desk. I envisioned myself growing steadily happier and perhaps even going out and picking up my life where I had left it off. At the time, of course, that was the last I wanted to do, but I saw it as a good thing through the encouragement of dreaming hopefuls of my acquaintance. It was a false hope, as I realized a year later, to think that a pain that great would ever fade. Just like my sorrow now, my love had also been great. Great love doesn't simply disappear.

It was one morning, on another pleasant day in March, Toulouse the dwarf came crashing through my door with a grin on his face.

"Christian!" he exclaimed, and I supposed that he was surprised to see me sitting at my table and not lying with my face hidden which I assumed was what he was used to encountering in my situation. I looked up at him but I don't remember smiling.

"Hello Toulouse," I replied weakly. I watched in relative discomposure as he came forward, followed not surprisingly by the rest of my old friends upstairs. They approached me in a group, and afraid that they would see my manuscript I hastily stuffed most of my papers into my dressing gown.

"What are you writing there, Christian?" I heard the Narcoleptic Argentinian say, emphatically, but Toulouse interrupted him. "It doesn't matter," he said hurriedly, waving his hands in dismissal. "The reason we are here at your doorstep is so we can persuade you to come outside." His eyes became squinty as he told me with real excitement, "It's a be-YOU-tiful day!"

I already had my answer. "I'm not coming, Toulouse," I told him softly.

His hands grew still and all eyes suddenly fell on me.

"Why?" asked five voices at once. I felt my temper rising. "Because!" I protested, "I don't feel like going anywhere!" I saw Jean's eyes practically sparkle.

"That's the most emotion you've shown all year!" he croaked. Toulouse nodded; "You're ready to leave your room now, Christian," he told me, and before I knew it they had dragged me bodily from my chair. I protested vigorously, but they would have none of it. "Now," said Toulouse, coming to stand in front of me while the others held my arms. "You can't wear that."

I was still wearing my dressing gown.

In a flash I was handed my tweed suit and a white shirt. They all exclaimed at the state of my wardrobe but seemed to remember again that I hadn't necessarily found the will to do anything about my life, much less my clothes. A curtain was thrust up around me and a voice on the other side commanded me to get changed.

"This is madness." I said.

Toulouse's face peered in around the curtain flap. "If you don't change then we'll do it for you!" he threatened. Knowing full well that he meant it, I hurriedly slipped out of my robe and into the clothing that I had been given. I could've rejected their enthusiasm and sent them away - I had certainly done it before - but a part of me felt rather excited at the prospect of going out into the world again.

In a moment I had finished. My friends took down the curtain and wrapped it into a ball which the Argentinian then tossed carelessly onto my bed. I looked after it but he shook his finger in my face. "Curtains can be put up another day," he warned.

"Let's be off!" Toulouse cried, and before I could say a word I was being whisked out down the hall and into the street. The fresh air hit my face like the remedy I hadn't been given and had been craving this whole time. For a brief moment, I felt refreshed.

They took me over to the Bar Absinthe which was a haunt of mine from days gone by, and bought me a drink. A wave of nostalgia captured my mind as I remembered coming to this very place with very different company: with Satine. I remembered how we used to sit at a small corner table there with copies of 'Spectacular Spectacular' in front of us, under the pretense of rehearsal - our only excuse to spend time alone together. Satine had already committed my writing to memory, leaving us free to laze away the hours with talking and kissing. The barman who worked there knew us both, and we trusted him with our secret for we knew he wouldn't tell a soul.

I didn't recognize the face of the man who handed me my drink now. "Where is Frederic?" I asked. The stranger at the counter eyed me curiously as he wiped a cloth over a newly-washed beer mug. "Monsieur Bertolle has died," he told me, "Absinthe poisoning." He leaned forward as he added darkly, "I wouldn't be surprised if you had it too: you don't look so good."

Toulouse brushed him away. "Don't listen to that silly man, Christian," he lisped, then pointed to the beverage in front of me. "Drink that. It should help."

I looked down, expecting to see the usual green liquid in a cut glass decanter, but was shocked to see my own face reflecting up at me from a pool of black coffee. "What's this?" I asked in disgust, but before I received an answer I had already started to drink it anyways, and it did indeed help.

"I don't know, Toulouse," I slurred later as I was finishing off the last cold dregs. "I can't help thinking about Satine. I see her all the time, everywhere. I can't get her out of my head." The dwarf put a small but sympathetic hand on my shoulder and patted it a couple of times. "That's what love is, Christian," he told me. "You had real love and will never forget it."

I felt a tear slip down my nose and land in my teacup.

The others, seeming to sense that I needed to be alone, got quietly up and moved out of the bar. They probably thought that since they had at least gotten me out of my room, I would be all right on my own; at least for a little while. I didn't watch them go, but stared morosely down at the little circle of saltwater my tears had created in the bottom of my cup.

I didn't mean to cry about it. I had, after all, done nearly a year's worth of crying on Satine's behalf, and in the end I'd only realized that she wouldn't have wanted that. But she'd cried for me. Only once had she done it, she was so strong: that was the night that she told me that she couldn't sleep with the Duke because of her love for me. The very next night, she would be dead, and with her my heart. When she died I felt a part of my soul leave me forever. That was why I cried.

"Eh there, friend," the barman was saying. "What's wrong with you?" I glared up at him, not wanting to answer. Finally he planted both hands on the counter and stared hard into my face. "Well?"

I pushed my cup back over to him as I said darkly, "The woman I loved is dead."

The barman thought for a moment, then shrugged and took the dishes I'd handed him. "How long?" he asked as he walked back over to the rack behind him, already stacked with dirty mugs and plates from a host of that mornings' breakfasters. I didn't understand. He finished putting my coffee mug clumsily onto the pile before turning back to give me a look clearly stating that I was an idiot.

"How long has it been since she died?" he asked.

I bit back a new wave of grief at the barman's bluntness. "Nearly a year," I answered softly. To my anger, he was shaking his head.

"Get over her," he told me brutally.

I looked back down at the empty counter before me. "Can I have a whiskey?" I asked. "Not this early in the day," he chortled, and walked over to help another customer. I felt my chest heave as if my shirt were pulling too tightly at it. For my first day out, it didn't appear to be going well at all. I looked around; everyone else in the room looked happy, even those who sat by themselves. This season's stricken Bohemians were suddenly todays' cheerful idealists. The world seemed happy because I was not, and at this moment it seemed well-resolved to work against me. I turned back to the counter as the barman shoved a cup of tea at me, expecting, I think, that I should drink it.

The little bell over the door jingled merrily.

"Eh! What are you doing in here?" shouted mine host irritably. I turned around and saw that a young woman had stumbled into the bar. She could have hardly been over thirteen, with very pale skin to the point of looking a bit sickly, and black hair that was chopped short. She was bareheaded and her dress resembled something that might be worn by an adolescent girl, though much too garish for anyone of respectable standards; it was frayed at the hem, and she wore a colored scarf tied about her tiny waist. Her dress was cut low as if to try and lift the flatness of her small, childish breasts, and her wide brown eyes were rather badly lined with a liberal amount of kohl.

I recognized her immediately as a prostitute.

"Get out!" The barman was running out from around the counter waving his arms at her. I saw the stricken look in her eyes as she scanned the room. Her gaze landed on me and in a flash she ran into my arms. The barman caught at her dress and determined to rip her bodily from my grasp.

"No! Let go of me Monsieur! I am with him!" the girl yelled in obvious terror. She wrapped her thin arms around me and clung with a grip like a vice on my neck. "Let me go! This man knows me! I am with him today!"

The barman glared at me and I could see the anger in his face.

"Is it true?" he barked. "Is this slut with you?"

I looked down into her face and felt pity rising from somewhere deep inside. I felt for this poor girl, chased out from even the most lowly of establishments because of what she was. Even in Bohemia, where every man was equal -some men, it appeared, were more equal than others. The girl seemed to know what I was thinking, and she wrapped my arms tighter around her waist in order to bolster my decision.

"Yes, Monsieur," I answered slowly, "She is with me."

The barman eyed me warily as if he did not believe my reply, but I glared right back and he took the hint. When he turned his back to me I pushed the girl gently aside and moved up from my seat. People were openly staring at me now and for good reason. My new companion was a mess, with dirty clothes and hair, and now even her makeup was streaked from her crying. I turned to leave my change on the counter, but decided against it and flicked it into the hands of the barman as he passed. My heart felt strangely heavy as I left the Bar, as if some part of my history had died that morning. The Bar Absinthe was no longer the same, and I had a feeling that I would not be going back there again.

I was just on my way down the street, feeling the gentle warmth of the rising sun and the fresh breeze on my face, when it occurred to me that I had been hearing the same footsteps for entire length of time since I left the Bar. I turned hastily around to find the girl shuffling behind me at a distance.

I could only look at her for a moment.

"What do you want?" I asked narrowly.

She looked at me for the briefest moment, then took her hand and drew it languidly across her skinny chest, pulling the shoulder of her gown down her arm in invitation. I looked away, disgusted.

But she would not be deterred, and ran up beside me. "Monsieur," the girl demanded my attention. "Monsieur, why did you defend me to the barman?" It was a blunt question, put equally forwardly by the impudent tripe who now stared up unabashedly into my face.

"Do not talk to me," I said angrily, pushing her away. It was a graceful shove, I thought, but one intended to be firm. The girl didn't seem even to notice, and simply rounded away to my other side and poked me in the arm, rather hard. "You were kind to me," she countered, "No one is ever kind to me."

I stopped and turned to her. "Listen; I don't know who you are or why you persist in following me, but you can hardly exoect me to be kind to you again if you continue to pester me like this. I don't want to talk to anyone today; that includes you. Now please; leave me alone." I gave her a hard look, then turned back and kept walking. It panged me a little to be so harsh which, truth be told, was behavior unusual for me, but I had been rather cold since...since Satine's...

"Monsieur?" It was that horrible girl again. What could she possibly be wanting now?

"Are you the writer?" I looked at her, surprised. "Why, I am a writer," I said slowly, "Whether I am the writer, I don't really know." She looked at me curiously. "The writer," she said again. "The one who loved wrote Spectacular Spectacular; the one who fell in love with the courtesan?"

My mouth felt dry. "Yes," I said. "I am."

She clapped her hands.

"I knew you were," she cried happily. "It was because you looked so sad. They said that you didn't used to be sad until your lady died."

"No." My voice was hoarse. She was smiling at me, not impudently as before, but almost understanding. It made me take heart in a strange way.

"Who told you this?" I asked.

"Mome Fromage, and Tattoo," she told me. "You've heard from them?" I asked eagerly, taking the girls' hands. "Where are they now?"

"At the Moulin Rouge."

My pulse quickened and my heart stopped like a lead weight in my throat. The name of my dance hall rang like familiar music to my ears, almost as if I could hear the strains of me play in the background of my mind. "The Moulin Rouge?" I asked breathlessly. "But it was closed down? A year ago...they..."

The girl smiled. "It's been reopened."

I gripped her hand in mine.

"Take me there," I said.


End file.
